We need truth in our lives. For the first half of 2018, these books were my satsang. Changing is hard, especially within a system. Not all of us can go to India or Canada or Peru for a year (though if you can, go on with with your bad self!). On the other …
I am unexpected. I am an out of wedlock pregnancy that solidified a union. I am a gentle kick inside my mother’s womb on her wedding day. I am the stiff upper lip as the word divorce falls upon me, wide eyed and stoic. I am a child silently hovering in the garage watching my …
Imagine the muffled sounds Of a seed weeping Begging the rain to stop At 10cm no mother Wishes death upon her baby But the sound of her tears Are the same It is the bursting in the rainstorm That brings forth new life The seed knows not what is coming And waters herself. Not believing …
I want to teach my children The nature of thingsHow on a blistering cold dayThe sun will be shiningThen rain will pour relentlesslyIn the middle of July You will arrive at the poolFloaties strapped to your armsHobbling aroundSmelling of sunscreen and hopeThe thunder will comeThe lifeguard will blow the whistleQuietly grateful for a day’s rest …
“You need a hobby” he says“Something you like to do”And there’s privilege in that statementIt hits me sitting here on the floorCutting out my hair that’s clogged the vacuum cleanerMy postpartum hair that never stopped falling outIt hits me as I rip the clumps of mefrom it’s roaring mouth To the maddening sound ofThe latest …
It stands to reasonMother Earth never intended for wildfires in their heat and their rage,to be the main attraction. For it is their ashes,the fertile by-product,that will feed new life. Likewise, then, my heartas it swells upand into my mind,is building new channels,new awakenings,making forestsout of my pain.
Let your lifetime erodeyour superficialityyour weights and measuresyour black and white thinkingyour duality. Let your body return to dust,not of the Earthbut of the starsSo that when you are born again,they will measure your sparkle,forgetting the cold, meaninglesscounter scale in the corner.
Perhaps the worm knowsthe songbird’s decaying boneswill feed her own daughtersfor generations to come. Maybe she willingly sacrifices herselfto its melody:A cadence we all knowbut choose to forget.
Grief is not limited to the months After funerals. The psychic corpses that litter my mind outweigh the physical corpses I have held in my hands. These corpses can include — Letting go of the sister I always wanted First years of life stolen by depression No soft hands on my back as a child …